i lean into the salt wind,

fingers tracing faint ridges

in damp sand.

“Where is my oyster?” i ask the horizon,

its answer swallowed by surf.

Kester Reed waits behind a driftwood break,

taps the shell-shards underfoot,

listens for that hollow note

that might be its name.

“What would it be, even?” he murmurs,

searching for shape in shadows.

O...

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"The Impossible Turn"

To hold what harms, to face without flinching, to shape warmth from wire.

To drop the name, to meet the eyes, to let edges soften.

To burn the mold, to kneel in ash, to rise listening.

Not conquest. Not perfection. Only forward motion.

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"her constellations" 

Her constellations are bite-sized galaxies of feeling,  

each cluster a starfield guiding fingertips  

across cool stone beneath the rush of night air.  

“Lantern in the fog” becomes Polaris—  

steady beacon anchoring a mind adrift  

amid distant buzzle of restless streets.  

Swipe, scroll, tap—  

three morning prayers in digital chord, ...

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